Door in the Sky

by Carol Lynn Stewart

  "Lady's blessings!" Gorka said, gripping Richard's gloved hands.

  "Right." Richard tucked the helmet under his arm and turned to Marc. "I am going now," he said to the younger man.

  "I will walk with you," Marc told him. "I can carry the helmet."

  Richard hesitated, then shrugged, the armor clanking faintly with his movement. He handed the helmet over to Marc. Then he strode out the back of the smithy, into the fields. Along the way, people stared at him, mouths hanging open. Three girls walked beside them smiling up at Richard and stroking his armor. Finally, they came to the outlands where there were few people, and Richard increased his pace to make up for the time they had lost talking to villagers along the way.

  "I still say you look like a hero!" Marc's eyes were glowing. "Can I wear this after you bring our Maríana back?"

  Richard laughed. "Why not?" he said. "But I must warn you, my friend. This is heavy." He lifted his arm with difficulty and then let it swing back into Marc's side so that he felt some of the weight. "And it is hot." Sweat ran down his face and his hair was sodden.

  "Maybe." Marc rubbed his side where the armor had hit him. "But when the women see me in this... Ahhhh!" He lifted his hands in jubilation.

  The river was up ahead. "This is where I leave you." Richard reached for the helmet.

  Marc solemnly handed it to him. "Come back, eh?" he said softly.

  Richard set his teeth and looked up the path. "I will."

  He had to stop several times on the way up. "It is the weight of this armor," he told himself. Each step toward the cave became more difficult. Soon he felt as though he were wading through deep water. Or honey, perhaps; something sticky and thick. He tried to move his arm against the pressure he felt pushing in on his body. Not only the armor was hindering him. Something was trying to prevent his reaching the cave.

  He could see the cave's entrance now. It was late afternoon, but light emanated from the cave in bursts of brightness. An angry humming poured out, the sound wasps make when their nests are disturbed. He squared his shoulders and made his way over to the entrance, glanced quickly inside. A straw mattress and a chest stood at the back, over to the right of the chamber, he could see the corner of an alcove. Part of the train of Maríana's gown spilled into the main part of the cave from the alcove. He started, then leaned away. It would not be good to chance more exposure to the green-gold light radiating from the stone. Merely breathing was already difficult. Placing the helmet on his head, he stepped over the threshold and entered the cave.

  "I CHOOSE to go back," Maríana told the glowing form, "and I will do as you ask." The form raised what must have been a hand, then his entire shape disintegrated in pieces, sending a spiral of currents through the light.

  Maríana spread her arms, prepared for her return. "You will be dizzy and could feel ill for a few moments," the form had told her, "but if you concentrate upon something from your world -- a tree, a room, anything -- the transition will be easier for you."

  She closed her eyes and the image of Richard's face appeared. She could see his brown-amber eyes, his shock of black hair, the curve of his smile. A pressure on her elbow chased the image away. Her eyes flew open. Ibrahim was there. His eyes darted from her to the living light. "A moment, please! Grant me this?"

  He seemed satisfied by whatever answer he received and turned to Maríana. "We don't have long," he said, "and I did not want you to go without telling you that I am sorry." There were tears in his eyes again.

  "What could you possibly have to be sorry about?"

  "It was foolish of me -- I did not want you to know that I was ill," he said. "I knew that I was dying, and I was afraid to see your grief."

  "I understand."

  "There is more." His speech became faster. The light was changing color from the deep glowing gold to a brighter yellow. "I tried to help Ysabel. But the pain..." Now a burst of white-gold brilliance sent Maríana spinning. Yet she could still feel Ibrahim's hands, hear his voice. "Maríana," he said, "tell your father, tell Louis-Philippe! I never told him this. I did not stay at the château just for you, just to honor my promise to Thérèse."

  Spirals and labyrinths took her. Her stomach constricted in protest; the light pulsed. Ibrahim's grasp was weakening. "Have Iranzu translate the last pages of the red book. They are for your father! Maríana." His voice was cut off as everything around her shattered.

  RICHARD shuffled to the right. He guided his feet, looking down through the space where the helmet did not quite meet the breastplate of his armor. One foot, then the other. He had no plan beyond taking Maríana away from the stone, refused to contemplate failure, could not think of what he would do if she was already dead. His foot touched her gown and he bent toward what he could see, his armor groaning with the motion. He reached out and fumbled until he grasped something soft, something that gave way under his fingers. He thought it was her arm. Grabbing it firmly, he set his feet apart and pulled. The light became slightly brighter and the humming grew louder.

  Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he pulled again. Damn! He was panting now, should be able to pull her off the stone. Why couldn't he? Squeezing his eyes shut, he put his back into it, pulled with all his strength. "Please, God, Goddess! Jesus and all the saints! Help me!"

  Light flashed out in a brilliant arc. Whatever was holding Maríana released her. He fell backward into the cave, Maríana in his arms.

  DARK NOW. No more flashing light, no more angry buzzing. Richard lay where he had fallen. How much time had passed since he pulled Maríana off the stone? He frantically pulled his gloves off.

  His fingers found her hair, and he felt for the pulse in her neck. Not there. He took in a deep breath, felt again, this time following the curve of her jaw down to where her pulse should tremble in her neck. Still nothing. She felt cold. He grabbed one of her hands, began to chafe it.

  No, no, no! She could not be dead. He blinked the moisture out of his eyes. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Juanandi, Allah," The moist warmth of his breath hit the cold metal of the helmet, curled back to his face. "Please." A shudder. Was that him? How could he shudder, encased in metal? Now Maríana's hand flopped across his chest. He could feel the push and sway of her motion. Thank you.

  He tried to sit up, but something deadly had taken hold of his limbs and he could not move. "Maríana," he said, shaking her gently. "Maríana, we must get out of here and I cannot do this alone. I need your help."

  Still no response. But she was breathing. Her mouth must be by his hand, warm streams flowed across his palm. Nothing had ever felt better. He shook her again and tried to rise.

  SHE WAS IN a dark space, lying on a hard surface. The cauldron was in her hand, her fingers locked around it. How had it gotten there? She had placed it beside the stone.

  The surface she was lying upon, heaved. She could hear dampened sounds coming from beneath her.

  She turned, ran her hands over something cold and slick. Metal? The blurred noises increased. She could see the outline of a man now, lying on his back on the floor. "Armor!" she exclaimed, then grasped the arms that were waving. She pulled the man to a sitting position and helped him remove the helmet.

  "Maríana." His dark hair was plastered to his head. His voice shook, but its rich timbre filled the cave. "Thank God. We must get out of here before the stone awakens again." He struggled to get up.

  "Richard!" She took his face in her hands, pressed her lips against his. "But how?"

  Never mind. He was right. They must leave the cave. "Let's take off your armor first," she said. The dizziness the form had warned her about was washing over her now. "I cannot help you with all that armor weighing you down."

  She helped him pry the metal plates off, and crawl out of the arm and leg coverings. Then, she drew his arm over her shoulder and hobbled out of the cave with him. He slid to the ground.

  After a moment, Richard had revived enough to crawl back in the cave and dragged the armor out, piece by piece. "I promise
d Marc he could wear it," he said, collapsing next to her.

  "Are we safe this close?" He looked anxiously at the mouth of the cave.

  "We will have to be," she said. "I can go no farther." She curled up beside him and rested her head on his outstretched arm.

  Chapter 38

  JEAN BECIER extended his arms over his head and rolled onto his side in the bed. Voices of his guards below made a pleasant rumble and the fragrance of fresh-baked bread teased his nose. He yawned and rubbed at his eyes. Ysabel was nearly finished. He could get no more out of her. His last session with the thumb screw had sent blood pumping in a bright ribbon from her hand.

  His first-in-command, Pierre, had bound her thumb in a tight dressing, but she was so pale Jean was sure she would not last more than two or three days. Before her hand had spurted so much blood, Ysabel had given him much to think on.

  Jean dressed and climbed down the stairs to the guard room. Three of his men were there. One of them offered him some bread. He took a chunk of the warm bread, thoughtfully chewed upon it.

  "Did you know," Jean asked them, "that the widow Geneviéve was married to a Cathar?" He looked around at the blank expressions and frowned. Weren't these idiots aware of anything? "Her dead husband was a heretic," he continued, and was pleased to see the surprise and anger on their faces now. "Oh yes," he said, chewing his bread with great enjoyment. "The de Reuilles family has many secrets."

  Jean turned to Pierre. "We must bring Geneviéve in for questioning," he said. Geneviéve was fat. In his experience, fat women lasted a long time. And they suffered so beautifully, begged so piteously.

  "We do not have orders to look for Cathars here."

  Jean studied Pierre through slitted eyes. The man was becoming surly. After he bound Ysabel's hand, Pierre had reminded Jean that des Arcis had only ordered Jean to keep the women in the dungeon, not to torture them. And after Utarilla died, Pierre had insisted on a proper burial for her body.

  Pierre had not gotten either of his requests. Jean had told him des Arcis merely said the women were not to be burned. And Jean refused to give a Christian burial to a witch. The old woman's body still lay in her cell. No, Jean was master here. They must do as he wished. He tore off another chunk of bread.

  "There may be resistance, since she is the sister of the baron, and the people like her more than they do Ysabel. Perhaps you believe your men cannot take Geneviéve?" Jean raised his brow, let the last words slide into a sneer.

  Pierre just sat regarding him for a long moment, eyes shadowed, face unreadable. Really! At the next assignment, Jean would ask for someone else as first in command. Indeed. When this was finished, Reuilles-le-château would be his. Baron Becier. Jean popped a piece of bread into his mouth, then nearly spit it out. Why not take Louis-Philippe, too? Surely his messenger was nearly to Carcasonne by now. Durand's approval was a mere formality.

  "My men can take anyone," Pierre finally said. "But if we do, we must be prepared to hold the tower against de Reuilles' men." His eyes held Jean's. "Are you prepared to withstand a siege?"

  "It would not be for long." The words tumbled out too quickly. Jean steadied his breath, said, "My man must have reached Durand by now." The men were worried, some even bit their lips. Pox! "Durand will send a company to take the château when he sees my message." And he would, wouldn't he?

  Pierre kept chewing the bread. Would the blasted man keep him waiting? "Well?" Jean held his hands on the table. If he lifted them, they would shake. That would not do at all.

  "We can take anyone." Pierre brushed crumbs off his hands.

  "Excellent!" Jean jumped up from the table. "This is what we will do..."

  RICHARD stood looking out the door, his back rigid. Maríana sat upon the bed, the chalice -- the cauldron -- between her hands. "I have no choice," she said, as she had been saying throughout the night.

  Richard crossed his arms. "You are mad."

  Maríana cradled the cauldron next to her belly, but there was no warmth in it for her now. She glanced at the tossed blankets, ran a hand across the surface of the bed. Even the bed was cold, though when they returned from the cave, it had burned with their desperate need to join, and join again, to crawl inside each other, to feel life beating in ancient rhythm within them and between them. She looked up at Richard, standing in stiff accusation in the doorway. He had stood there since she told him she must return to Reuilles-le-château.

  "I have no choice," she said.

  "No choice?" He whirled around, fists held in tight knots at his side. His eyes had gone silvery with rage. "You mean the glowing light man that told you to do this said you had no choice? Let me tell you something, Maríana. It was I who got you off the stone, me!" His fist thumped against his chest. "I saw no glowing light man there. It was I who saved you. No one else! Iranzu and Adelie-all of the people here-they would have left you up there to die."

  His voice trailed off. There was something he was not saying, Maríana thought.

  He continued, "I have seen some strange things here, yes. I know you can do things that are beyond anything I have ever seen, but I will not accept this!" He turned away again, hid his eyes from her. "You are not going back to the château."

  "This is what I must do. This is why he let me return."

  Richard's shoulders lifted, then deflated in a sigh. He turned toward her. "If all he asked is that this thing go back to Reuilles-le-château," his voice softened, "then let me take it back. I would be safer. They are not looking for me."

  "You do not know this."

  "No. But I refuse to let you go." His eyes went silver again. "Are you sure this is the only reason you want to go back there?"

  "Do you think I want to do this?" She grabbed his arm, allowed the terror that lived in her to surface, to show on her face. "I do not want to go. But I must."

  He placed his hand over hers; his eyes wavered. Some struggle shook him. He opened and closed his mouth several times; the line between his brow deepened. Then he drew in his breath, a long, shuddering inhalation. He pried her fingers from his arm, stood back.

  "No," he said. "I gave up everything to come here with you, my family, my lands, my entire life. I can never go back to what I was before. And you are asking me," his voice broke, eyes squeezed shut for a moment, "you are asking me to watch you throw your life away for this?" He pointed to the cauldron. His face had stilled, eyes now remote. "I suppose Iranzu and Adelie agree to this?"

  "They do not like it, but yes." She looked away from his face. Richard had always been open to her. To see his shuttered eyes hurt more than what she must face.

  "And Leila?"

  "She will never forgive me," she whispered, then lifted her head, forced her eyes to meet his. "But she understands."

  Richard looked away. When he turned back, his eyes were once again distant. "I will not accept this." He turned and walked out the door.

  MARÍANA sat huddled on the floor of the stone hut. Marc had come in and taken one long look at her, then dropped the large pack he carried and sat down beside her. He had said nothing, just sat next to her in silence. "What is that you have?" she asked.

  Marc pulled the pack over to her. "I brought these for you. You could not hear me in your mind just now." His last words were desolate.

  "No. Iranzu told me my powers may come back in time. His mother always lost her abilities for a time after she entered the stone."

  He looked away, then gestured toward the pack which contained ropes, blankets, and food. "There are some things from Leila, too. Grandfather said we will need them."

  "We will need them?"

  "I am going with you." When she opened her mouth to protest, he quickly continued, "Only as far as the winter house -- about a half-day's march from the château."

  "Adelie will allow this?"

  "Grandfather told her I must guide you." Marc's voice trailed off as she stared at him. "They do not know me, but Grandfather is well known. It is safer."

  "Very well."
>
  He took her hands. "What has happened to Richard? He ran past me as if he did not even know me."

  "What do you think is wrong?" She squeezed his fingers.

  "Maríana, this is hard for him. He does not know the things that we know. Please give him some time."

  "I have no time to give him, Marc. We must go." She waited for him to precede her out the door.

  The path wound south and started climbing. "This is a different way from the track we took to enter the valley. The bell forest is on the other side." Maríana pointed back toward the village.

  "This is our usual path to the outside," Marc said, then he bit off an exclamation.

  Maríana stopped, cried out, "Richard!"

  Richard stood at the top of the rise they were climbing. He had his pack at his side, some rope wound around his shoulder. Maríana moved toward him, but he spoke to Marc. "I am coming with you," he said.

  Marc nodded and climbed up to where Richard waited. The two of them walked on.

  Maríana stood where she had been when she saw Richard. She waited until the joy, and then despair, had dwindled into a dull ache inside her. Then she continued up the rise behind them.

  Chapter 39

  MARÍANA could never seem to get warm anymore. She sat by the fire, her mantle pulled tightly around her shoulders, and studied Richard. His body was too rigid for someone who was asleep. She had not slept at all. Had Richard just awakened or had he been awake all night, too? He was turned away from her so she could not see his eyes.

  During the entire journey, Richard refused to -- could not -- look at Maríana. But whenever she stumbled, his hand was always there to steady her. Whenever they approached a stretch of rough ground, he always moved to hold her arm. Her body sang at his touch, then shivered when he pulled away yet again.

  Maríana felt the loss of him, a sharp ache that traveled through her limbs. She considered telling him about the child she carried, the little boy she had seen on the other side of the Door. But she could not. She cradled her head in her arms. If he knew about the baby, he would surely tie her up, imprison her to keep her from doing what she must do.